Agnew, on request, told a long and involved story of a
Chinese laundryman and a San Francisco broker which evoked much
laughter. Then Milton, as master of ceremonies, turned to Enoch:
"Now then, Judge, do your duty!"
"I haven't a parlor trick to my name," protested Enoch.
"I like what you call our efforts!" cried Harden. "Hit him for me, Ag!
He's closest to you."
"Not after the way he wallops the Ida," grunted Agnew. "Let Milt do
it."
"Boss," said Jonas suddenly, "tell 'em that poem about mercy I heard
you give at--at that banquet at our house."
Enoch smiled, took his pipe from his lips, and began:
"'The quality of mercy is not strained,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven,
Upon the place beneath--'"
Enoch paused a moment. The words held a new and soul-shattering
significance for him. Then as the others waited breathlessly, he went
on. His beautiful, mellow voice, his remarkable enunciation, the
magnetism of his personality stirred his little audience, just as
thousands of greater audiences had been stirred by these same qualities.
When he had finished, there was a profound silence until Milton said:
"That's the only thing I have heard said in the Canyon that didn't
sound paltry.
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